


Darkness reigns at the foot of a lighthouse

by saintscully



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst and Feels, Canon diverges and then snaps back to its original path, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Infidelity, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Missing Scene, Much like Selina Meyer’s ex-husband this story fluffs you then it fucks you, Mutual Pining, POV Sherlock Holmes, Podfic Welcome, The dom/sub dynamic is consensual, They're both miserable, angst on angst on angst, implied suicidal ideation, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:01:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26009956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintscully/pseuds/saintscully
Summary: Why John went back to Mary that Christmas.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 32
Kudos: 64





	Darkness reigns at the foot of a lighthouse

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's note and content warnings:** Please heed the tags. This story is an angst emporium. [ Reach out to me on tumblr ](https://therealsaintscully.tumblr.com/) if you have any questions or worries. 
> 
> The idea for this story came from the July ‘20 [sherlockchallenge](https://sherlockchallenge.tumblr.com/) (prompt word “Break”), but since I’ve been busy with [ Erosion ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25662031/chapters/62299864) I missed the chance to write it properly on time. It started as a short fluffy one scene, did a 180 and became an angsty, longer story (because why not, really). 
> 
> ‘Darkness reigns at the foot of a lighthouse’ is, according to Google, a Japanese proverb. I read various interpretations of it and chose one that quite well with this story. 
> 
> **English as a second language** : While this story was betad, English isn’t my first language and I sometimes make edits post-beta. You shouldn’t find any glaring mistakes but if you do I hope that doesn’t prevent you from reading this story. 
> 
> **Thank you** : Lots of love and appreciation to my beta, imagesymboltext for a quick turnover, great feedback and patience with my silly non-native mistakes :) 
> 
> **Tumblr** : I am [ therealsaintscully](http://therealsaintscully.tumblr.com) on Tumblr and [saintscully2](https://twitter.com/saintscully2) on Twitter. Come say hi. 

Sherlock fights to keep his eyes open as he stares out the window from his place in the passenger seat. 

The long, sparse road stretches ahead, winding in the distance. They’re driving along the Dorset coastline, leaving Bridgeport Harbour behind them. It’s a bright, cold winter day; the normally golden sand seems gray, the late afternoon sunlight shimmers over the waves.

He's battling his body’s demand for a respite. He’s exhausted but he’d be hard-pressed to admit as much to John. It’s hateful how out of shape he is. He did nothing close to physical exertion besides sitting and standing all day and yet here he is, drifting off like a small child after a stint on the playground.

Sherlock gives in to the urge for a second; he closes his eyes as he listens to John’s mindless humming to holiday-themed music on the radio. 

Christmas is coming soon. This fact somehow crept up on him. There was no sign yet of any holiday cheer in his last outing from the flat a couple of weeks ago to the shop on the corner - the farthest John would allow him to venture. The realization took his breath away as they left Baker Street this morning. Red and green decor hangs over every nook and cranny of the city.

They’d left the small-town police station behind them earlier and stopped for a late lunch. John was the one doing most of the eating as per usual. Sherlock’s digestive system is still entangled with the complexities of a healing gunshot wound, his dark mood, and his normal lack of appetite.

The case was dull. It took him all but 45 minutes to figure out who’s been murdering lone, elderly men and women in the nearby villages. It was the local magazine photographer, of course. A traveling man expected to chat people up in order to scout for new stories in this God-forsaken corner of the earth. He’d murder them, hop off to another interview or photography assignment, then call the police in as if he had just passed randomly by and found a dead body. 

A responsible citizen simply doing his job, as it were, accidentally encountering terrible things along the way.

His mistake was that he became too greedy. It’s far too easy to locate and attack the elderly in these parts, but his rampant enthusiasm raised even the idiotic local police’s attention. When they felt they’d reached a dead-end in their own investigation - if one can call bungling in confusion ‘investigating’ - they’d contacted London, and from there all it took was one phone call from Lestrade.

It was the first case Lestrade had the nerve to offer since Sherlock had been shot; in fact, he didn’t reach out to Sherlock at all. John answered his own phone yesterday evening, sneaking apprehensive glares at Sherlock, as he listened to the DI speaking.

Sherlock had been recovering for months when Lestrade called. He and John had been ensconced in the flat in their usual solitary confinement, John acting as a human shield against any requests for Sherlock’s attention and time for the sake of healing. 

Agitated and bored, it’s been a daily battle for both of them to keep the apartment standing in the face of his own turbulent moods once he was able to leave his bed. John has been unusually patient with him, but Sherlock can see the reason for that in his eyes every day. The guilt and remorse over Mary’s part in Sherlock’s physical agony are just as present there as in the moment Sherlock opened his eyes for the first time after he collapsed on the floor of his sitting-room.

Despite John’s guilt, Sherlock knows him well enough to know that he needs the rush of adrenaline just as much as he does. He noticed John’s jaw tighten, suppressing excitement as he listened to Lestrade go on and on about the case details. His body tensing, soldier John was clearly aching for some misadventure; Doctor John was hesitant - scanning and deducing Sherlock’s physical condition to determine whether there was any point in even considering leaving the house.

“ _Fine, we’ll go_.” Sherlock yelled from his seat on the sofa, loud enough for Lestrade to hear him over the phone.

John hung up, sighing and fussing, making sure it’s clear he’s _not happy about this at all_ and that Sherlock should be _focusing on recovering_ \- all whilst Googling rental cars.

“Promise you’ll behave, Sherlock.” John threatened after confirming the final details with Lestrade over some texts.

Sherlock never has and never will.

And now, here they are; driving along the West Bay coast overlooking huge cliffs and small, sea-side villages. Everything within viewing distance is decked out for Christmas. Every plastic tree, every fairy light Sherlock has laid his eyes on since they left the flat this morning has been a dagger aimed at Sherlock’s heart.

Being locked inside 221B meant he’d lost track of time. He’d been making plans regarding Magnussen since the day he was released from hospital, and everything is in motion; they’re ready to go once everyone gathers at his parents’ house.

Sometime soon, he realized earlier as he stood over the body of an elderly woman, he’ll have to speak with John. 

They’ll have to talk about Mary.

How is it that every time he spends months on end strategizing the most brilliant of plans, he forgets the most important part of it: John?

* * *

He wakes abruptly minutes later, his body noticing a change in terrain underneath the car’s wheels. Disorientated, he blinks in surprise and scans his surroundings.

A thoroughly unperturbed John has driven away from the main road and down a smaller, bumpy lane heading towards the head of a great cliff. There are no visitors during this season. It’s a cold weekday afternoon with only crying seagulls gliding about. 

On their right stands a tall, towering lighthouse. It’s painted in bright white and clear blue, the colors complimenting the wintery scenery around them. The waves crash against the rocks surrounding the lighthouse, protecting the cliff it sits upon.

“John?” He asks, confused.

“Just a small detour, Sherlock.” John smiles warmly, the heat in it warming Sherlock’s insides. “We could both use a break. A bit of fresh air won’t kill you.”

“Won’t it, though?” Sherlock grumbles, getting a chuckle out of John.

“Look at this view, Sherlock. It’s gorgeous.” He says and unbuckles the seatbelt and nods towards the cliff. “Come on, just for a little while.”

Sherlock steps out slowly, suppressing his tired body’s protests. He stretches and breathes in the salty air. His eyes follow John as he grabs a blanket from the back of the rental car. They head towards the head of the cliff rising above a small, empty bench.

“Perfect.” John says as he pats the bench. “Wait here. Cover yourself with that.” He throws the blanket at Sherlock. 

The detective looks appalled by the suggestion but acquiesces when John responds with a now fully perfected “ _Do As I Say or Else_ ” counter-stare that comes straight from the place where his Dr. Watson and Captain Watson personas meet.

“Fine.” Sherlock grumbles. 

John looks around, scanning the area. When he finds what he’s looking for he heads towards the lonely nearby vendor, determination in his step. 

Sherlock takes a big breath, his nose tickling with the cold air as it enters his nostrils. 

He’s caught off guard by this change of plans. He spent the day wishing to have some time for himself; now that he realizes just how tight his deadline is when it comes to bringing John on board with his plans, he needs a few solid hours in his Mind Palace to strategize the best-case scenario.

Tomorrow could be good. If John would leave him alone for the rest of the night, he’s sure he can come up with something adequate enough by morning. John got his bit of excitement and his mood seems good. Better than Sherlock’s seen him in a while, really.

Some of the supreme awkwardness that enveloped them over the past few months seemed to dissipate once they stepped out of the car heading for the police station this morning. The doctor had been in a great mood all day, calling Sherlock ‘amazing’ and ‘brilliant’ and throwing pleasant smiles his way.

Just like old times.

John returns with two disposable cups of tea. Sherlock looks away as he flaps the edge of the blanket towards John - an offer for John to join him, one Sherlock wonders if the other man will refuse.

He doesn’t.

Surprised ( _right brow raised, lips curled downwards in disbelief_ ), John nestles in and lets out a satisfied sigh at the warmth it provides.

“Thanks.” John says, his surprise evident in his voice.

Sherlock nods wordlessly. He would never deny John anything, not even the warmth of a questionable blanket on a cold December day. It’s an innocent gesture, but it seems to raise John’s suspicion.

“Are you all right?” John asks quietly. “Any pain?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“We can go if you’d like. If you’re uncomfortable.”

Not uncomfortable. This is nice.” Sherlock says, prompting another raised brow.

“Yeah? Good.” John beams at him. 

Sherlock hums and awards John with a small smile for his goodwill.

“Look at those boats.” John says and juts his chin towards the beach. It’s full of weathered boats tied to a small, old pier. “D’you reckon anyone’s been sailing them recently?”

“Of course. The people of Dorset are seafaring people.” Sherlock jokes with a small grin and they both laugh.

“A little bird told me you wanted to be a pirate when you were young.” John says.

“A _little_ bird?” Sherlock says and John laughs again. It’s so easy to make him laugh sometimes. “I think you mean a stuffed turkey.”

“Yeah, you got me.” John concedes. “Did you?”

“If he says I did, I must have.”

“You don’t remember?”

“I don’t remember much of my childhood.”

“Hmm.” John says. “What was your pirate name?”

Sherlock brings the can to his mouth then he shakes his head and furrows his brows. “I.. can’t remember.”

“What, nothing at all?” John says jokingly. “That’s very unlike you.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Probably deleted it.”

“Did you have a ship?” John teases him.

Sherlock does remember _that_.

“Of course I did.” Sherlock smiles. _The Broken Dagger_. She was the most glorious-”

He has to stop talking because John is laughing like an overjoyed idiot. 

“Where did you take it?” John says and beams at Sherlock’s face. They’re so close to each other, encapsulated by the warmth of the blanket. 

“ _She_ takes _you_ , John. The ship guides you to your rightful location.”

“Oh, right, right.” John chuckles in a mock apology.

“Are you just going to laugh at me the entire time?” 

“I’m not laughing at you, I’m laughing with you. I love listening to your stories, you know that.” 

“Do you?” He asks bitterly as his stomach drops, knowing full well he has a story to tell John will not like. 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” John inquires again.

“Yes, of course. Stop fussing.” Sherlock chides him.

“Alright.. If you’re sure.” John says, his knee shaking in slight discomfort.

 _Conflicted about staying here?_ Sherlock wonders. _Nervous? What about?_

“It’s just… I just wanted a change of setting, you know. I missed this. You and I on the road together; me chasing you around.”

Sherlock swallows at the sentiment. He changes the subject.

“I sailed the seven seas with her.” Sherlock goes back to piracy, knowing full well it’ll make John laugh again. He protested that laughter not a minute ago, but the fact is he finds it delightful. They haven’t laughed like this in months. The truth is that Sherlock missed it, missed it terribly.

“Sounds brilliant.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock hums in agreement as a sudden gust of wind ruffles their hair and the blanket.

John takes a big breath.

“God, it’s nice to be out of the house, isn’t it?” John asks. “You did well today. You’re getting better.”

“Yes, I think so.” Sherlock lies.

“Maybe we can start taking cases again soon, you know. Meeting with clients. Maybe after Christmas.” John prods gently.

Sherlock’s face tightens in pain. _We_ , he thinks as he realizes the assumption behind John’s words. 

“Not until you’re ready, though.” John says, noticing but thoroughly misunderstanding Sherlock’s grimace.

Sherlock only nods at that. John clears his throat, changing the subject back to pirates.

“So where would you let _The Broken Dagger_ take you these days?” John asks tentatively.

“Madagascar.”

“Madagascar?”

“Nosy Mangabe, to be precise. It’s a small island just North East of Madagascar. It used to be the home of more than a thousand pirates back in the day. The strategic location of the island meant they intercept ships returning from the East Indies and plunder in leisure. If I could go anywhere in the world as a pirate, that would the place. Not much piracy these days but it does serve as a wildlife reserve, a safe haven for the aye-aye lemurs. They’re the most fascinating nocturnal mammals and they’re just about extinct.”

Sherlock finishes his little speech out of breath, lost in his own world. When he turns to look at John, what he finds is a big, wide smile. A besotted smile, Sherlock realizes. One he hadn’t seen since their first days together.

It’s as if John isn’t really listening, he realizes. Only searching for his eyes, looking closely at his face.

“They really are fascinating.” Sherlock blurts stupidly, undone by the look in John’s eyes.

“Hmm.” John murmurs and smiles a bit wider. His eyes search for Sherlock’s. “I’m sure they are.”

Overwhelmed, Sherlock looks ahead in an attempt to diffuse the tension.

“Any spots for a first mate open on that ship of yours, Captain?” John murmurs.

Sherlock swallows.

“Of course.” Sherlock says. “If you think you’re up for it.”

“I’m up for anything, Sherlock.” John says. He turns to look at Sherlock again, closely. His voice is soft when he continues. “I’ll go anywhere with you, you know that.”

Stunned, Sherlock turns to look at John. It’s moments like these that steal Sherlock’s breath away. He looks back at John, really looks, to make sure he isn’t misunderstanding.

“You know what I mean, Sherlock. Yeah?”

“John…” Sherlock begins.

“I just…” John starts too but drifts away. He turns to look back at Sherlock, a pleading mixture of questions and answers in his eyes. Sherlock's chest turns to stone at the sight of that, his head swirling with a dizzying wave of sympathetic pain.

So enraptured is he with John’s unspoken words, he doesn’t notice that the other man is getting closer and closer until his lips rest on Sherlock for a soft, hesitant kiss.

Caught by surprise at the sensation, by the contrast the warmth John’s lips bring to his frozen body, he whimpers softly. This seems to encourage John so he presses his lips slightly harder, his body leaning more heavily into Sherlock’s space.

‘ _Darkness reigns at the foot of the lighthouse_ ’, Mycroft’s voice floats to his mind. 

Of course Mycroft would make a destructive appearance in a moment like this. One of Mycroft’s more terrible life lessons, it’s something he’d tell Sherlock every time the younger sibling found his own bright star to admire. Once you put yourself in the company of your hero, Mycroft explained, you learn that though they shine brightly, it’s very dark for those closest to them.

John always admired Sherlock. He thought of him as a bright lighthouse in the darkness that was his past life in Afghanistan.

‘ _Darkness reigns at the foot of the lighthouse_ ’.

John is about to learn this lesson. _Again_ , he realizes painfully.

John moves away when he feels Sherlock lacks a response. The other man’s eyes are blissfully closed for a very short moment, indulging and relishing the sensation.

When John opens his eyes, he scans Sherlock’s face hopefully, looking for a sign of reciprocation. Sherlock stares downward, unable to look into John’s eyes; he knows what’ll happen when he does.

“...Sherlock?” He asks weakly. “Shit.” He hears John muttering to himself, tearing his body away. “Shit. I’m sorry, Sherlock, I thought that maybe...”

“John…” Sherlock tries to speak.

“Shit. Oh shit.” John continues and Sherlock can hear the beginning of John’s guilt spiral, feeling the atmosphere in their blanketed cocoon changing drastically. “I’m sorry.” he continues, choking up. “I thought… I shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s alright.” Sherlock says, his heart torn over John’s obvious pain and the way his blood sang when he felt John’s lips on his.

“No, it’s not alright, Sherlock. Not if you don’t want it.” John says.

“Never said I didn’t want it. It was… good.” Sherlock confesses. He feels more than sees John’s head turning quickly back in his direction.

“Oh.” John blurts out. “What?”

Sherlock closes his eyes in pain, knowing full well now’s the time to speak up. He can’t drag John along any further than this; if he does, he’ll lose John forever.

“Sherlock.” John says sharply, demanding an explanation.

“We can’t do this.” He whispers. “You’re going back to Mary.”

“I’m…” John shakes his head, dumbfounded. “What? I’m… no, I’m not. Oh god. Of course you’d think that. Is that what this is about?”

“No, John. Listen to me-”

“No, no. You listen to me. I’m not that kind of man, Sherlock.” John says. “I’m not going back to her. This isn’t…”

“Yes, you are, John.”

“No, I’m really not, Sherlock.” John’s voice is pitch higher now, frustrated. “Of course I’m not going back to her. She shot you.”

“You have to, John.” Sherlock whispers, though his voice is commanding. “You have to go back to her. You can’t stay.”

John’s eyes turn from soft to angry in a split second. His voice, warm and yearning, is now icy cold.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“She’s dangerous. She’s allowing us this…my recovery. It’s some sort of show of remorse. But she’s waiting for you to come back, and you have to. She shot me once and she will again if she gets the slightest sense of anything like this... A kiss...”

The impact of Sherlock’s words knock every last bit of air from John’s lungs.

“You’ve…” John narrows his eyes in anger. “You’ve thought about this.”

“Yes. Extensively.” Sherlock admits.

“You’ve made up your mind.”

Sherlock raises his eyes. “Yes.”

“Well, it’s not your decision to make.” John straightens his back in defiant petulance. “You can’t force me to go back to her. I’m not doing that.”

“You have to, John.”

“Listen, Sherlock. If this is about the kiss then I’m sorry-”

“It isn’t about the kiss-”

“We can just… What do you call it, delete it. I’ll... I’ll make do with what... With whatever we always were. But I’m not... You can’t…”

“There’s no other way.”

“Sherlock, come on. We’ll figure something out.” John pleads. “You can’t honestly expect me to go back to that flat, to... She shot you!”

“Yes, I know that, John!” Sherlock snarls, his patience thinning. This isn’t how this conversation was supposed to go, not at all. “I know she shot me, and unless you’d like your loving wife to do that again, _you have to go back to her_!”

John huffs in shock, gritting his teeth as if trying to bottle his turbulent frustration. He breaths in, trying to remain calm.

“Sherlock, I know you think you have to solve everything for me but you don’t.” John says. “I’m my own man. I can handle Mary. We both can. You’ve asked a lot from me since the day we met but this… you can’t ask me to do that. We’ll find a way. Let’s talk to Mycroft. If she’s everything you said she was, Mycroft can…”

“If Mycroft has his way with her, she’ll either die or disappear for good. That means you’ll never get to raise your child. I can’t carry the weight of that on my shoulders.” Sherlock says.

Shocked with Sherlock’s calculated words, John clears his throat loudly.

“Alright. Then we’ll talk to her. We’ll establish some sort of agreement. She can go, we’ll promise that we’ll keep her secrets safe..”

“We can’t do that.”

“Why not?” John asks, frustrated.

“Because for your safety, your baby’s safety as well as mine, I need to know exactly where she is. I can’t protect any of us otherwise.”

“Alright.” John moves in his seat. “Alright. Then we’ll go. We’ll disappear, together. Like you did. Make her think we’re gone, you know. That we’re no longer a threat to her. Or maybe I’ll go first and you join me and-”

“The baby, John.” Sherlock says simply. “You can’t walk away from the baby.”

“Sherlock!” John calls angrily. “Please, we can think of something-”

“There’s no other way!”

“I can’t, Sherlock!” 

“You have to! You can’t stay, I won’t let you!”

“You _won’t let me_ stay?” John snarls.

Sherlock doesn’t respond, the words he just spoke catching even himself by surprise.

“So what, you’re kicking me out? After everything…” John bellows.

“If that means she’ll take you back, then yes.” Sherlock admits cooly, knowing full well he’s adding fuel to an already flaming fire.

John throws the blanket away, his anger blowing up instantaneously, like steam from an engine. He hurls the can at a bin, missing it but not bothering to pick it up.

Sherlock watches as John climbs back to the car wordlessly, not looking behind him. He slams the door far too forcefully, his knuckles white as he grasps the wheel tightly. John stares furiously ahead, awaiting Sherlock to join him.

He closes his eyes in defeat. He takes advantage of the fact that John can’t see his broken face; he allows his lips to twist in pain before he takes a long breath to regroup and brace himself for a thoroughly uncomfortable ride back to London.

* * *

Sherlock takes the steps to 221B slowly these days. He doesn’t have the energy to hop two at a time like he usually does. 

They took the tube back from the rental agency and John was deadly silent still, growling and grunting in response to the few times Sherlock tried to address him. 

Sherlock watches the other man, his body coiled like a spring, as he takes steps ahead of him. He’s stomping angrily, opens the door to the sitting room in what can only be described as ‘violently’. Not a moment passes before the door to his room upstairs slams shut so forcefully the entire building is shaking.

Sherlock closes his eyes, his body in pain as much as his soul.

He takes his time on the way to his own room, his breath shallow from exertion. His body is traitorously weak, their distressing argument breaking his spirit even further. It’s hateful, but it’s mere physiology, he knows that very well. The body will heal soon enough; by Christmas he’ll be as good as new.

His heart, though? 

He doubts it will ever heal after today.

Sherlock collapses on his bed with a sigh. He stares up the ceiling as he listens for John’s frustration on the floor above him.

The limp is returning; he can tell simply from the sound of furious footsteps. Of course it is.

He never imagined John would take the news of his plan well. No, of course not. He imagined a heated argument during which Sherlock was supposed to cooly and calmly list his detailed, rational explanations. John would be upset but dazzled, as always, and they would end up agreeing that they’re both in this together, to the very end.

Sherlock never imagined that conversation would come on the heels of a kiss. Why would he? Things were comfortable between them during his months of recovery, but it never came close to the comfortable intimacy they shared in the days before his fall.

John’s guilt filled his eyes, and they never discussed anything deeper than the news, old cases, and Mrs. Hudson. The issue of Mary never came up; there was an unspoken but well-kept moratorium on the topic of John’s impending fatherhood.

John never mentioned his plans for the days after Sherlock’s recovery, but he assumed that was only because John felt it was none of Sherlock’s business. If anything, he assumed John and Mary would reunite and announce it to Sherlock after the fact.

John wouldn’t go back happily, but there is a baby. He’s a good man, a man who keeps his word, and he wouldn’t have felt comfortable neglecting a child.

So yes, today’s kiss was a complete and utter surprise. 

It changes absolutely nothing.

* * *

John has been up in his room for six straight hours. Sherlock spent two of them in his chair in the sitting room, waiting for a resigned John to descend the stairs and ask if they can ‘just talk about this.’

Eventually Sherlock got bored. He settled himself in the kitchen; he took some soil samples from the crime scene earlier today and couldn’t see a reason not to examine them now.

His body tenses when he hears the door to John’s room open and footsteps on the stairs. Nervous, he drops the slides he’s holding onto the floor where they lay broken. He curses himself quietly over his clumsiness, of how sensitive and responsive he is to John’s anger.

He gets up and starts scouring through the kitchen cabinets for a new packet of slides. He’s sure he has one somewhere. He’s rifling through boxes of matches, straws, and lighters when John steps into the kitchen. His tortured presence changes the atmosphere in the entire flat, filling it with loud silence; he’s still angry, his lips compressed in a straight line.

John clears his throat when he sees Sherlock in the kitchen but says nothing. 

He makes tea loudly and angrily. With a brusque flick of his hand he moves the sugar bowl and yanks the tap when he fills the kettle up. He places it back on the counter with a loud thunk. 

Sherlock knows these movements by heart, they’re just never so volatile.

They opt for ignoring each other, waiting to see who will be the first one to break. John stands frozen by the counter, staring at the kettle as if it can solve life’s problems. Surprisingly, it’s Sherlock who’s unable to stop himself from speaking first.

“John, please.” He says but gets no response.

John shuffles his legs, ignoring him. He opens a cabinet door and pulls only one mug out, placing it angrily on the counter.

“John, I expect you to be sensible about this.” Sherlock tries again.

John freezes at his words, then starts laughing. It’s miserable, high-pitched laughter and it grates on Sherlock’s nerves.

“Sensible?” John says. “What could you possibly know about being sensible?”

Sherlock swallows at the accusation.

“When have you _ever_ done anything sensible in your entire life?” John asks loudly and shakes his head. “ _Sensible_.” He whispers to himself in disbelief, as if Sherlock just suggested that aliens have taken over 10 Downing St.

“John, I can assure you I thought about this long and hard, and while this really isn’t the optimal-”

He stops abruptly when John turns and forcefully grabs his lapels. 

“Shut up.” John murmurs. He thrusts Sherlock against the kitchen counter and aligns his own body against Sherlock’s. “Just.. shut up.”

“John-” Sherlock falters, oxygen leaving his lungs at their closeness.

“No.” John says, his voice commanding. “Shut up. I decided something today. You’re not making the calls around here anymore. You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”

“I…” Sherlock chokes when he feels John rutting against him, unsure whether it’s on purpose or accidentally. The sensation leaves him light-headed with arousal.

“No, you don’t. You’re supposed to be this genius but you’re just as lost as I am.” John’s voice is so low right now it’s borderline threatening. 

Sherlock’s pulse skyrockets. His brain goes into overdrive with the sensation of John's body all over his, with the implicit threat of possession. 

“You’ve always been lost, haven’t you? But all you ever needed was a firm hand, someone to order you around.”

They both inhale sharply when John ruts and grinds against Sherlock again. They exchange a long, meaningful look when they realize they’re both hard.

“Yes.” John smiles dangerously like a predator. The mutual rutting turns to slow, mind-blowing grinding. “You want this, don’t you? You want me.” 

Sherlock loses his bearings when he realizes that John is sniffing his collarbone; he tilts his head backward, giving John access to his neck. John’s left-hand travels to Sherlock’s hair, grabbing and pulling, taunting Sherlock’s senses. His other hand pushes Sherlock down towards him, his lips grab Sherlock's in an angry, bruising kiss. 

“Here I was, sniffing around you like an idiot, giving you all this _space,_ ” John growls as if disgusted by that last word. “When all I needed to do was grab you and-”

They sigh in tandem when Sherlock drags John closer still, his hand reaching down to feel John’s erection.

“Yes, that’s right.” John encourages him, his voice a dark molasses. “Good boy. You want it?”

Sherlock sighs, dizzy with want. He whimpers with a sense of loss when John moves his crotch away.

“That’s why you chased that fucker Moriarty, isn’t it?” John taunts him. “Because he _played_ with you. He had you wrapped around his finger. Oh, I can play with you. The things I’ll do to you, you’ll be begging me to stop. Did you let him fuck you?”

Sherlock grinds at thin air, now that John moved his body away. He looks John deep in his eyes, moaning in surprise at John’s question blunt. 

“What about Irene? You fucked her, didn’t you?”

Sherlock swallows he reaches out for John’s belt, opening it and dragging John’s trousers and pants down his thighs.

“Yesss.” John rasps at the feeling of his cock released. “Did you let her touch you? Did she tie you up?”

Sherlock shakes his head furiously as he runs his hand over the tip of John’s bobbing crown. “No…” Sherlock sighs into John’s ear.

“God, I fucking hated her. Good.” John says, thrusting his cock further into Sherlock’s hands, urging him for more. “Good. Because you’re mine. No one will ever touch you again, do you hear me?”

Sherlock nods hungrily, focussed on the feel of John’s cock in his hand.

John’s grabs Sherlock’s palm, raising it up and licking it sloppily. When it’s finally moist enough, he puts it back down on his own cock.

“Do it.” He orders Sherlock as he tugs on his hair again. “Harder. Make me come all over you. I'm going to mark you and everyone will know you're mine.”

Intoxicated with the mix of pain, heat, and arousal, Sherlock does exactly as commanded. John is hard as a rock, coiled, and ready to burst. Despite his commanding voice so far, John speaks softly in his ear now, encouraging him; “ _Yes, oh fuck yes._ ” and “ _So good, I wanted you for so long, don’t stop._ ” and “ _Fuck, fuck, you feel so good._ ” Sherlock couldn't stop if he wanted to, addicted to John’s sex-addled voice. 

This is the only chance he will ever get to do this ever again. He’s a selfish man and he’ll take this, memorize it in his brain and will never, ever delete the sensation of being engulfed by John in the throes of his passion.

It only takes a dozen or so pulls before John’s body tenses abruptly, grabbing Sherlock’s hair tighter than ever. Sherlock feels the warm droplets spreading all over his torso, marking him with John’s tangy smell.

They breathe heavily as John comes down from his climax. 

Sherlock rests his head in defeat against John’s shoulder, the reality of what they just did sinking in. He’s made it worse. He was weak, he was fragile, and he made their imminent separation even more impossible to bear.

_Mary will know. Mary will know and she’ll seek revenge._

He shivers when he feels John’s palm cupping his own cock, exploring the hard ridge longingly. John runs his hands down Sherlock’s body, aiming for his belt buckle, intent on reciprocating. 

“Your turn.” John whispers, his voice husky.

_This has to stop now. Nothing’s changed._

He grabs John’s hand and pushes it away.

“No.” Sherlock says, his voice unintentionally cold.

He feels John’s entire body freezing. John moves away and raises Sherlock’s head, searching for his eyes.

“Sherlock?” John asks, confused. 

Broken and wounded, Sherlock finally raises his eyes to John’s. And John… John reads him like an open book, understanding the painful truth behind Sherlock’s rejection.

 _This doesn’t change anything_ , Sherlock’s eyes tell him, and John’s face crumples in agony. _You have to go back to her_ , he says telepathically and John looks away in anger. _You chose her. Now you have to pay for it. We both do._

“I’m sorry, John.” Sherlock whispers.

John shakes his head frantically as his hold on Sherlock’s hair turns from comforting to painful.

“Oh, you’re going to be.” John's voice is low and foreboding . It sends a chill down Sherlock’s spine. He pulls on Sherlock’s hair even harder, his face closer than ever and his eyes burning with anger. “You think you can play with my heart like that?”

“You think you can…” He chokes and lets Sherlock go, thrusting him against the kitchen counter again.

“John...” Sherlock begs as the other man fixes his clothes, shaking his head at Sherlock’s words.

“No.” John says, determined. “No.”

“John, please…”

John turns away and grabs his coat from where he left it on the coat rack in the sitting room. His eyes shoot daggers at Sherlock as he opens the door, he appears as if he’s about to say something, but then decides against it.

The house shakes again and then again when John slams the doors behind him.

* * *

John returns to Baker Street at dawn, blackout drunk.Sherlock exhales loudly, his heart in his throat when he parses out the sounds of John’s attempts at conquering the stairs to the flat. Yes, the limp is worse, much worse. And what’s more, John isn’t better. He’s just as furious as he was when he left the flat hours earlier.

Putting his mental shields back up, Sherlock stands and walks to find John passed out on the stairs. He treads them lightly, hoping John didn’t wake up Mrs. Hudson when he came in. He lifts John up by his arms, his stomach objecting to the heavy weight he shouldn't be carrying during recovery. But what choice does he have? He’s the one who brought John to the edge; he was the weak one, the one who saw something he knew he could never have, shouldn’t have, and took what he could greedily.

By the time he lays a conked out John in his bed he’s out of breath, nursing his stomach and hoping no damage has been done. He closes the door behind him and plants himself on the first stair, right outside the door, his ears open to listen to any sign of distress.

None comes.

* * *

John wakes hours later. Sherlock had always known him to be grumpy during his hangovers, but he’s angrier than he’s ever seen once the other man finally leaves his room.

Sherlock had changed his own wound dressing this time, admitting to himself that little is left for John’s medical care at this point.

John showers, makes himself a sandwich, and vanishes to his room for hours. Around 10 pm John leaves, grabbing his coat from the coat rack without a word.

Sherlock isn’t sure why, but the first thing he does when he hears John slamming the door behind him is to sneak up to John’s room and open the door. He finds two duffle bags; the two bags Mycroft arranged to be transported from John and Mary’s flat while Sherlock was being released from the hospital.

Sherlock swallows in defeat at the sight.

* * *

John and Sherlock’s days turn into a cycle of pain, avoidance, and drunkenness.

Sherlock spends his nights on the stairs to the flat, awaiting a drunk John to appear. When he does, Sherlock takes him up to his room. Some nights Sherlock smells the stench of cigarettes and the sweet scents of a woman’s perfume; other nights the scents are clearly a man’s cologne.

John doesn’t speak a word. He’s so drunk Sherlock wonders if he even notices he’s there. Sherlock puts John to bed; he never says anything. There is no point. John won’t comprehend his words when he’s drunk and won’t tolerate listening to him when he isn’t.

Every night Sherlock closes the door to John’s room behind him and spends the rest of it by the door. 

Come evening John leaves the flat again.

Every day Sherlock sees the duffle bags, packed and ready.

He has no idea where John is going, and when.

* * *

One evening John leaves the flat, as per usual, but something about his stance is all wrong. He eyes Sherlock maliciously. Sherlock’s stomach turns, bile rising up in his throat. When John slams the street door behind him, Sherlock goes up to John’s room. He browses the drawers and the dresser quietly and efficiently, until he finds what he’s looking for.

When John returns he’s mumbling angrily as Sherlock pulls him up the stairs in their miserable nightly ritual. Sherlock’s senses attack his brain when he realizes he smells both a man as well as a woman on John’s body. When he lays John down on his bed John suddenly speaks.

“I hid it. Shhhhhh.” John shushes Sherlock loudly, finger to his lips. “Don’t tell Sherlock.”

Sherlock closes his eyes in pain.

“All right.” He says, as if John even registers his words.

* * *

Sherlock wakes abruptly from his seat on the top of the stairs. Frustrated growls come from John’s room as he walks around it, banging doors and kicking the legs of the bed. It takes Sherlock a long minute to realize what’s happening. His blood freezes in his veins when he does.

John is looking for his gun.

He won’t find it, though. Sherlock confiscated it hours ago. It’s no longer in the flat.He barely has a chance to process this information when John flings the door open. His eyes widen in shock when he finds Sherlock perched there. All that’s needed is a short, wordless conversation for John to understand.

Frustrated tears clouding his eyes, John slams the door in Sherlock’s face.

* * *

Four days before Christmas Sherlock lays the AGRA memory stick on the kitchen table.

John stands there, making a sad-looking sandwich for himself before he leaves for another night of drunken sex in the women’s loos or a blowjob in a back alley. Sherlock clears his throat. John ignores him. He places a piece of paper next to the memory stick.

John is silent for a moment, intrigued by the text written in Sherlock’s hand. He snorts when he’s done reading it.

“I’m not saying any of that.” John says, derisive.

“You don’t have to say these exact words. You can say whatever you want, but you need to make it believable if she’s to take you back.”

“I’m not _going_ back.” John says pointedly.

“You are if you ever want to see your baby. If you want to remain alive. If you somehow care if I remain alive.” Sherlock says coolly. “Whatever it is you say, you better make it good. If you think she wouldn’t be able to tell that you’ve been fucking half of London you’re sorely mistaken.”

Shocked by Sherlock’s harsh words John swallows, his eyes narrowing with suppressed anger. 

Sherlock sniffs indignantly as he walks away.

* * *

Sherlock listens for Mycroft’s confident footsteps as he ascends the steps to their flat. 

_He’s early_ , he thinks. _Possibly nervous_. 

Sherlock is nervous too. Their joint plans have worked before but as brilliant as the two of them are, they still fail to predict each and every outcome. They both miscalculated before, in the most unforgivable of ways. 

Charles Augustus Magnussen is no Moriarty, but he's a formidable enemy nonetheless.

He hears the door to the sitting room open whilst he collects his toiletries and packs for their Christmas visit.

“Dr. Watson.” Mycroft says sourly as he enters the sitting room. 

Sherlock just came from there; John’s been standing and staring silently out the window for the better part of an hour. Sherlock watched him for a while as he stood there, holding Mary’s memory stick.

“The car is waiting. When you’re ready.” Mycroft speaks to John.

“I’m not coming.” John says and Sherlock freezes mid-movement, surprised by the declaration. “I’m not playing along with whatever the hell it is the two of you are planning.”

Sherlock picks his bag up and steps quickly to the sitting room, listening.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, Doctor.” Mycroft says. 

He’s a good liar.

“Oh, I’m sure you don’t.” John says snidely. “You’re in on this too, aren’t you Mycroft? The two of you should be medically tested. Maybe someday I’ll be able to understand where the ice in your veins comes from.”

“No need for medical testing, I assure you.” Mycroft smiles smugly. “The people who gave us the ice in our veins are currently awaiting our arrival in our childhood home. I must say, though, that’s rich coming from a man who had my brother’s hand down his trousers not two weeks ago.”

Sherlock gasps quietly, surprised.

“Fuck you, Mycroft.” John spits, his body changing swiftly into combat mode.

“Oh, don’t fuss, Dr. Watson. My brother is an adult. He may stuff his hands wherever he sees fit, it’s really none of my business.” Mycroft says solemnly, shaking his head. “Though I’m not sure the same could be said about Mrs. Watson.”

“Mycroft, that’s enough.” Sherlock finally intervenes before John resorts to actual violence. Mycroft tends to underestimate John. Others have discovered that’s a nearly fatal mistake to make.

“John, we’ve been over this.” Sherlock says with a sigh. They have. A lot over the past 24 hours. “Mary needs reassurances. The only way to do this is on neutral ground.”

John shakes his head, guffaws in frustration at the thought.

“You’ve already packed, John.” Sherlock continues. “This is just the last stretch. I promise you, we’ll figure it all out once Mary feels safe again.”

John looks away, torn.

“I promise, John.”

Sherlock holds his breath for a long minute until John’s shoulders slump in defeat.

“All right, but I’m not coming today. I’ve rented a car. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“John...” Sherlock says hesitantly.

“I will, Sherlock. I’m a man of my word, unlike you.” Sherlock shuts his eyes at the biting accusation. “I just can’t take any small village holiday cheer right now, ok?”

Sherlock sighs in resignation. “Ok.” He says, picking up his suitcase.

“I want my gun back.” John says, catching Sherlock by surprise.

Sherlock’s eyes widen in fear.

“I won’t do anything, I promise.” He says coldly. “But you’re wrong if you think I’ll be going back to that flat without any means to protect myself.”

Conflicted, Sherlock turns to look at Mycroft. John’s right, of course. The most dangerous and unexpected element in their entire plan is Mary. She might know exactly what they’re planning, and even if she doesn’t, John is correct; better safe than sorry when it comes to Mary Watson.

Mycroft nods slightly and turns to John. “All right.” He says. “You’ll get it back at our parents’ house tomorrow.”

John nods back, satisfied. 

“Could you give us a minute please, Mycroft?”

It’s Sherlock’s turn to nod at Mycroft who heads for the stairs. John takes a big breath before he speaks. He looks Sherlock squarely in the eyes as he does.

“If you leave now, Sherlock...” John’s voice is harsh, tinged with pain. “If you leave... I’m never coming back again.”

Sherlock’s heart drops. John is serious, he knows he is. John will not come back. He won’t come over for cases and dinners and movie nights.

“I’m not kidding, Sherlock.” John adds, his voice stern.

“I know, John.” 

_There’s no other way, John._

John’s face crumples right in front of Sherlock’s eyes. Anger, disappointment, resentment. Heartbreak.

John’s heartbroken. Can John see the bottomless heartbreak in Sherlock’s own features? Did he ever?

John’s eyes are pleading, refusing to let him go. Sherlock lowers his head. He’s said goodbye to John so many times. He’ll do it as long as he has to if that means keeping John alive. It’s his fate; the price he was destined to pay for his faults. He’s come to terms with that over and over again.

John isn’t his and he never will be. 

John is the only thing that matters.

He turns around and takes the steps slowly, the world swirling around him in a dizzying wave of emotion. Mycroft’s driver opens the door for him and takes his bag to the back of the car. Sherlock slides in, not bothering to greet an excited-looking Billy Wiggins.

“According to the GPS system, we’ll arrive at our destination in less than 90 minutes.” The driver announces cheerfully, though nobody really asked him.

Mycroft moves uneasily in his seat as Sherlock stares ahead, detached and unresponsive.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, brother.” He says simply.

Sherlock closes his eyes. He rests his head against the car window, feeling its coolness against his skin.

 _Of course I don’t, Mycroft._ He thinks, mirroring John’s words. _When have I ever?_

He opens his eyes, a strange sensation needling through him. Someone’s watching him. He looks up to the window and his breath catches when he locks eyes with John. John shakes his head, his lips a thin angry line.

He walks away, turning his back to the window as the car leaves the kerb.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Can you imagine how wonderful it felt to choose Madagascar as Sherlock's dream destination due to the simple fact that [you're a Douglas Adams fan](https://www.ted.com/talks/douglas_adams_parrots_the_universe_and_everything), then discover in your research that it used to be a pirate hot spot?
> 
> Maybe someday one of MF's characters will finally get lucky and go to Madagascar after all.  
> 


End file.
